She had a way with mirrors
She tamed them with one look.
No periwinkled gape emerging, unplanned, confusing,
No fairytale abasement of princess lost and found.
She knew the score, the path, and scaling
Was her day job, to step on meek cadavers, to pursue, victorious.
Each face thought out,
Lip drawn in cupid perfection
With dervish undertones.
Eyes framed with agate offerings,
The brow? A work of art, unfurrowed and unhurried.
Regrets are someone else’s,
A sleight of mind, eclipse of hands,
And back we are, unwrinkled,
To smooth-held opinions and shifting granular sands.
Meanwhile, the portrait in the attic
Waxed crueller by the year.
findingtimetowrite 